


That Butler - Demon

by noemiluisa



Series: Kuroshitsuji [11]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Demons, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:17:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noemiluisa/pseuds/noemiluisa
Summary: Sebastian POV. Short description of how Sebastian might be looking at his Master. Mentions of blood.





	That Butler - Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji's characters.

Sweet Master, so beautiful – covered in blood.

Fists clenched in pain, as he calls for my name 'Sebastian!'

And darkness smiles, a crooked grin and sharp teeth.

He has a really sweet tooth, the Young Master.

His daily treats accompany his morning tea, complement to the taste if his sullied soul. The tarts, the scones, the crème burlée; all meticulously prepared by me to appease his delicate palate. And he lasciviously indulges in them.

He is a player, my Master. He likes to play with me, at chess. And I acquiesce to his whims and I let myself be played. To my amusement, he falls for it.

He challenges me, in words play. It's an easy game but I persuade him he has the upper hand. Once again, he surprises me and I chuckle.

He lets my silver tongue run though his ears. The words I say, he doesn't believe them, or so he thinks. A marionette posing as a puppeteer.

He is a tease; oh, how I long to taint those immaculate sheets and to wreck that frail shell containing his soul.

He strolls in front of me, taking a promenade through the flourishing gardens of my mind, where I lock him up.

* * *

I stare at your silhouette from behind you back. I creep within your shadow and I know that you feel it, even as covered in honours as you are. That mantle and those emblems cannot protect you from your fate.

You know it, but you do not show it. No emotions are displayed on your face even when I can clearly smell your fear. Your self-deceit is delightful, my self-proclaimed Master and Earl…Ciel – no, I shall not lie, Bocchan.

Beautiful and damned, sapphiric and amethyst eyes stare at me, questioning. Do you wish to know your taste?

I take a step forward, then another one. You retreat, but vines on the ground come to life as you stumble upon them.

You glare at me as red liquid oozes out of your wounded wrists. It drips on your skin and on your white ragged shirt. Your lips are parted, as the thorns sink deeper in you flesh. You're an artwork, stretched still at those twisted angles, moments from being torn apart.

So beautiful – Bocchan – while you bleed and present me your delicious soul. Not too spiced; it's the quintessence of mingled flavours. You look ready to be defiled; a king crowned in sins.

And I lick my lips.

 


End file.
